


Stay With Me

by AnneCumberbatch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cancer, Caretaker John, Caring!John, Gen, Sick!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 07:44:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9169198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnneCumberbatch/pseuds/AnneCumberbatch
Summary: Sherlock has stage four cancer. When John finds out, it is too late to even try treatment. Refusing to abandon Sherlock, John takes care of him.





	1. Hear Me

Sherlock sat on the sofa, his head leaning back against the back, his dark curls lying in a mess, framing his face. His feet rested, outstretched, against the edge of the coffee table and his hands lay across his stomach, fingers interlaced. His gaze was absent and glazed over. His only movement was the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. 

Footsteps trudged up the stairs and Sherlock closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of John entering the kitchen, carrying a load of shopping. The bags were placed on the counter with the tumbling of boxes and cans admits the crinkling of the plastic and John's footsteps moved into the living room next to his red chair. "Been busy, I see."

Sherlock didn't move in response, keeping his eyes closed. His fingers tightened slightly in an unnoticeable movement. 

John walked back into the kitchen. "I left, you know. Went to the store. Got more of that tea you wanted."

Sherlock remained quiet and unmoving.

John came out into the living room again. "You alright? You're being awfully quiet."

Sherlock refused to open his eyes, his chest was tight from restraining the emotions that were in his chest. He swallowed and his throat felt as if it was closing in on itself.

John came forward a few steps. His voice changed to a gentler tone, "Sherlock, what's wrong. What's happened."

Sherlock opened his eyes. "John..."

Immediately, John was by his side. "Sherlock, what's happened. Are you alright? Christ.."

Pushing the palms of his hands into his eyes, Sherlock felt the moisture that had escape and leaned his head back again, breathing deeply through his nose. John's fingers brushed Sherlock's forearm. "What happened, tell me..."

Sherlock pulled away from him and stood. "Nothing. Nothing happened."

John stayed seating and looked up at him. "I don't think I've ever seen you cry before."

"I'm not crying." Sherlock tried to walk into the kitchen, but stumbled over the corner of his chair.

Leaping up, John was at his side, helping him sit in his chair. "Jesus. What's wrong with you?"

Sherlock sat silently, his face blank. He stared off at the fireplace, his body resting limply in the chair, his hands in his lap. John grabbed a blanket from the seat of his chair and tossed it in Sherlock's lap. "Wrap yourself up, I'm going to make tea."

Sherlock’s hand shot out and grabbed John’s arm, his long thin fingers digging into the soft fabric of John’s jumper. John froze. Sherlock closed his eyes, running his fingertips along the dark blue cashmere. “I gave this to you.” His voice was weak and soft, more breath than sound.

John nodded. “Yes, for my birthday.”

Sherlock nodded, “It’s..” He swallowed, feeling his dry throat contract. “It suits you.”

John stood still, “Sherlock, you’re scaring me.”

Sherlock looked up at John. “John, I need to ask you something.”

Looking down at him, John nodded. “Can I make tea first?”

“No! No, John, just.. just listen to me.” Sherlock pressed his other hand against the side of his head, eyes closing tightly.

“Alright! Alright..” John took a step closer. “What is it?”

“John, if something happened to me-“

“What’s happened, Sherlock?” John interrupted, moving directing in front of Sherlock.

“Will you let me finish!” Sherlock’s eyes opened, looking up at John with a sort of fury.

John’s mouth shut instantly.

“Thank you. John, if something were to happen to me, what would you do? And just answer the question.” Sherlock’s grip on John’s arm tightened, nails digging in past the cashmere and into the skin.

“Jesus, Sherlock, let me go, you’re hurting me.” John didn’t move.

Sherlock released his grip and recoiled deeper into his chair. “I’m sorry.. I’m sorry..”

John knelt in front of him. “Sherlock.. what do you mean if something happened to you?”

Sherlock looked towards the fire again. “If.. if I were hurt.. without hope of recovery.”

John sank back on his heels and sighed softly, looking at him. “Well, I would take care of you. What else would I do?”

Sherlock looked back at John, his eyes glassy. “You would?”

John reached up, placing a gentle hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Of course, I would. I wouldn’t leave you.”

Sherlock breathed deeply, his hand moving up to rest on top of John’s. “Thank you.”

John squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder gently. “So what’s wrong? What’s happened? Did someone hurt you?”

Sherlock shook his head. He swallowed again. “John, I have… I have cancer. Lung cancer. Stage four.”

John looked up at him in shock. “Sherlock….”

A soft hand ran over John’s cheek, wiping away a tear. “Please, John, don’t cry.”

“Cancer. How long have you known?”

“A few weeks. I thought.. I didn’t want to tell you.”

“Sherlock, it’s fucking cancer, you’re going to die!”

“John, please. Don’t do this.”

John stood, running his hands through his short hair. “Jesus, Sherlock.. Why didn’t you tell me? Have you been doing chemo all this time?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No. There’s nothing to do. The cancer’s spread too far. I know what you told me, but I want you to know that you are free to leave at any time. The responsibility of caring for me should not be yours. I understand. You are under no obligation-“

“Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.” John grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders and shook them.

Sherlock’s eyes widened and a gasp of pain escaped his mouth, a sharp pain in his side from the sudden movement. His hands flew to the spot, pressing against the pain.

Releasing him immediately, John’s hands flew to cover Sherlock’s. “You’re in pain.. That’s why you’ve been so quiet.. How long has this been happening?”

“More and more. My mobility is lessening.”

John moved a hand to cup Sherlock’s neck, his thumb brushing the edge of Sherlock’s jaw. “Okay. Okay. Okay. We’re going to take care of you, alright? Okay. Let’s get you into bed, alright? You should be resting.”

“No. John, no. I don’t want to.” Sherlock pushed him away. “I don’t need that, not yet.”

“Alright.. I’m going to get you some tea then.” John went into the kitchen.  

 


	2. Worse

John was out. Sherlock lay in bed, his hands resting on the soft comforter tucked around him. His head lay against the pillows, which were propping him up into a half-sitting position. The blue veins in his hands bulged around his skeletal hand. His chest moved up and down slowly, a rattling deep in his chest as he breathed laboriously. His tired eyes rested, unfocused, on the wall opposite his bed. Every so often, a tremour ran through his body, sending spasms traveling chest, shoulders, and arms. Pain sparked in his chest, resulting in a faint guttural gasp escaping from his lips. His eyes fluttered shut as he exhaled, exhaustion from that gasp overwhelming his body. His breathing grew heavier as he struggled to gather the strength to re-open his eyes. His hands trembled from cold, but he could feel sweat sinking into the mattress beneath him, sticky all down his back and legs. His lips separated, dry and chapped. Water. He needed water. He closed his eyes and slowly pulled himself up, his abdominal muscles contracting. He shifted his elbows to behind him, supporting him as he raised himself. He shuddered with a breath and slowly shifted his legs to the side of the bed. He slid himself to the edge, feeling his toes touching the cold hardwood floors. He shuddered and rocked forward, leaning forward, resting his weight onto his feet. Tensing, he pushed himself up into a standing position. He staggered, reaching his hand out and hitting the wall, his arm giving in and his body slamming into the doorframe. A cry of anguish escaped his lips and his body began shaking. Sliding one foot along the wood floor, Sherlock moved forward out of his bedroom, leaning heavily on the wall. With the continual sliding of his feet, shuffling, he walked into the kitchen. He released the wall reluctantly and lurched towards the counter, his fingernails digging into the grey granite as he struggled to stay upright. His chest heaved with struggled breathing. He slid his feet towards the corner where the electric kettle sat. He raised a hand up towards the cabinet with the mugs. The world closed in, darkness bleeding from the edges of his vision, clouding his eyes. There was a blinding flash of light and the world went dark.

 

 


	3. Close

The darkness slowly graduated into grey. The grey mist slowly evaporating revealing clouded images, blurry against a light growing brighter. A rhythmic electronic beeping grew louder, a persistent and grating noise, piercing through the fogginess.

John sat quietly in a metal chair next to the white hospital bed. His body was folded over and his head resting in his hands. The exhaustion hung in the back of his eyes as a dull pain, seeking relief in the darkness of his hands. He exhaled slowly through his nose, a dull weight on his chest pushing out the air and compressing his chest. As he breathed out, he clenched his hands against his face, acknowledging the ease in which he breathed, the air he took for granted, the air that Sherlock was currently having pumped through his body. John pushed his hands up into his hair, his eyes tightly closed.

John had arrived home from the store to find Sherlock lying prone in the kitchen, bleeding from the back of his head. The image of the red blood against the tile was seared into his mind. Sherlock had been barely breathing. An ambulance had been called and he was rushed to the hospital where the doctors had done countless tests and scans. John had been banished to the waiting room for most of them after getting in the way one to many times. After waiting for an endless three hours, the doctor was allowed back into Sherlock’s room to sit with the stabilized patient. And so, he remained, six hours later, sitting at Sherlock’s bedside, waiting for the detective to awake, and waiting to receive personal reassurance of Sherlock’s wellbeing from the man himself.

With a barely noticeable increase, the heart monitor quickened and John looked up, his body still leaning over itself. His eyes ran over the form of his friend. Sherlock’s dark hair seemed even more so in contrast to the white bedding and his paler-than-usual skin. His dark eyelashes lay against the white skin just above his sharp cheekbones. The clear plastic mouthpiece covered his nose and mouth, attached around his head via a thin white strap of elastic. The quiet humming of the ventilator was paired with the gentle hissing noise of oxygen pushing itself into Sherlock’s lungs. With a slightly deeper hissing noise, Sherlock’s body shifted ever so slightly.

John straightened in his chair, his left hand reaching out and settling on the bed. He looked expectantly at Sherlock’s face, searching for the signs of awakening.

True to form, Sherlock’s eyes slowly opened and blinked slowly, unfocused and attempting to adjust to the light of the room. The fingers of his right hand sprawled and flexed as he flipped his hand over in an attempt to gain control over his body.

Reaching his right hand out, John gently laid his hand over Sherlock’s moving one. “Hey... Hey, it’s me. Glad to see you’re awake…”

At the sound of John’s voice, Sherlock closed his eyes before opening them, pushing his body to awaken faster, for his eyes to adjust. His throat made a guttural grating noise and turned his head towards John slowly, still waking up.

“Hey, you…” John smiled softly at him, unable to hide his tired eyes, but also unable to hide the relief at seeing Sherlock move. His hand closed around Sherlock’s fingers.

Sherlock closed his fingers around John’s, finding he could barely tighten his grip. His other hand dragged upwards and onto the mouthpiece. Using gravity rather than strength, he tried to pull the mask down off of his face, but before it could slide off of his nose, John pushed it back.

“No, it needs to stay on. You were barely breathing when I found you. How are you feeling? Are you in pain?”

Sherlock felt his eyes fall closed and he forced them open again in a form of agreement with John’s question. He tried to nod, but after lowering his head towards his right shoulder, he couldn’t bring it back up.

John gently placed his left hand on the side of Sherlock’s face and readjusted his face. “Alright. The doctors thought you might. I’m going to give you a little morphine, alright? They already set up the drip. I’ll turn it on.”

Sherlock made a small noise in protest, but the sound died in the dryness of his throat. He felt himself sink farther into the mattress. His body seemed to be sinking into its skeleton.

After turning the morphine drip on, John sat back down again, resuming his position of holding Sherlock’s hand with his right and looking into his face. “You gave me a right scare... You’re okay, though. Small laceration to the back of the head. I think you hit it on the table as you went down – I found you in a pool of blood at home.”

Sherlock looked down and tilted his head away a bit, ashamed of the consequences of his earlier actions.

John’s grip tightened slightly on his hand. “I’m just glad you’re okay. I won’t leave like that again, alright? So, next time you need something, I’ll be right there. I’m sorry for leaving you alone for so long.”

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly, his lips opening in a choked J sound.

John leaned back slightly, sitting quietly and observing his friend. In that moment, he saw the pain in Sherlock’s face, not from his condition, but from the burden of what Sherlock thought he was to John. John saw a realization suddenly strike him.

Sherlock turned his head back and looked John in the eyes, his light grey ones looking into John’s deep blue ones.

Immediately, they both realised Sherlock wasn’t going to last much longer.


End file.
